


Stages

by sparrow2000



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 08:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: Giles in mourning





	Stages

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al, own everything. I own nothing.  
> Comments and feedback are cuddled and called George  
> Beta extraordinaire: thismaz  
> Written for 2019 summer_of_giles  
> Thank you as always to the mods and all the contributors who make SoG such a lovely place to hang out every year.

The stages of grief are well documented, but he had learned over years of hard study and harder knocks that books didn’t hold the answer to all of life’s questions. Or indeed, of death's. He had also come to realise that it was the irony, or perhaps the tragedy of a Watcher’s life, that it was defined by death, but when the moment finally came, in a profession where words were the holiest of grails, both words seemed wholly inadequate for the task.

Denial was never an issue. It was hard to deny a death when you sent a young girl out to face it every night. Denial would be a denigration of her memory, of bright hair and a brighter smile - of mangled words and bad puns – of strength and determination and duty. Denial would be a betrayal of sacrifice and loyalty and unexpected family. Denial was for others – for sisters, friends and lovers - but never for him. Denial was a luxury he could never afford.

Anger burned like a flame. Sometimes a flicker in the dark and sometimes dazzling, making the shadows in his mind twist and dance in devilish relief. Anger was for himself and for a system that perpetuated the cycle of Calling, then stood back and let each Slayer fight and die and watched another one Called. And sometimes, just sometimes, when the flame illuminated the darker corners of his soul, anger was for her. For failing. For dying. For leaving him to face the ones she’d left behind. For leaving him to face himself.

Bargaining he recognised. Bargaining came at the bottom of a bottle of decent malt and in the dregs of a cup of cold Earl Grey. Endless nights wondering what he could have done better and railing at indifferent powers, both human and not, who only saw the larger board, the greater game and didn’t care about the individual players in their never-ending war.

Depression was a low-level hum in the back of his brain; ever present like the endless drizzle of an English winter. It meant books unopened and letters unread. Dishes unwashed and meals uneaten because appetite was an effort and an unimaginable indulgence. Depression meant gentle and not so gentle expressions of concern deflected with politeness and the impenetrable armour of English reserve.

Acceptance came one morning, unexpected, heralded by a song thrush singing on the highest branch of an ancient elm, its song soon joined by other birds as the sun rose on a young spring day. 

Giles stretched, rolled over and a ragged patchwork quilt in faded seafoam blue and green slid downwards to gather at his feet. He sat up gradually, letting the birdsong and the glint of early sunshine soothe his waking mind. He blinked slowly, and a photograph on the dresser, at first fuzzy from the remnants of sleep, came into focus and three teenagers sprawled on summer grass, bright and glowing with the carelessness of youth – a red-headed girl, a dark-eyed boy, and brightest of all, a blonde-haired girl, smiling, vibrant and shining like the sun in the morning.

Giles smiled at the girl in the photograph and drawing the quilt around his knees, he breathed out. 

Acceptance came with the next breath in as he listened to the song thrush herald the possibilities of a new and better day.


End file.
